


Trouble, Man.

by buckybleeds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Drugged Sex, F/M, Gaslighting, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020, M/M, Mind Games, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: Hydra would like to know where Steve Rogers is, and if Sam Wilson doesn't tell them he's not going to like what happens.
Relationships: Sam Wilson/Hydra Agents
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020





	Trouble, Man.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AgentMal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentMal/gifts).



> For @agentmal for the HTP Holiday Gift Exchange 2020.
> 
> Thanks to @theletterelle for beta work and to @ZG and @Hanitrash for cheerleading and brainstorming.
> 
> There are racist statements and racist actions taken by HYDRA agents in this fic; the racism is acknowledged as shitty, it is done by shitty people, it is not condoned by the author, it is not central to the story, no explicit slurs are used but racism is present and a noose is used to restrain a black man in order to specifically terrorize him. Please read with caution.
> 
> Spoilery summary in end notes.

It’s nice to be Captain America.

People bake you cookies, people ask for selfies, beautiful women hand you their phone numbers, Stark makes you patriotic wings, there’s dental. 

It’s nice. A good gig. 

There are, of course, downsides. One of which, off the top of Sam’s head, is the multigenerational genocidal project hellbent on killing all iterations of Captain America by hunting him down with megalomaniacs and the kind of overgrown frat bros that the Air Force rejected.

And the  _ really  _ frustrating thing is that they have such a hateboner for Steve that Sam isn’t even manacled in their creepy interrogation room because they want to torture Captain America, but is manacled in their creepy interrogation room because they want to see if Sam will tell them where the Star Spangled Man with a Man fucked off to when he and Bucky retired.

Sam will not tell them. He knows he’s got trackers injected under his skin; he knows somebody’s coming for him. Sam can outwait the squids unless they stop the supervillain monologuing bullshit and just shoot him. 

Besides. Captain America 1.0 and the Winter Soldier were most emphatically not born yesterday.

Sam can’t tell HYDRA where they are, because he doesn’t know where they are, because kidnapping and torturing people to find Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes is practically all that HYDRA does anymore.

It’s sad, really, how the mighty have fallen.

So Sam has his wrists manacled together in the center of a very boring interrogation table, in the middle of a very boring interrogation room, and he is staring at his own undeniably handsome reflection in the two-way glass because there’s nothing better to do until Stark or Natasha or someone kicks down the door and saves the day.

* * *

Brock glared at Wilson through the glass and felt his eye twitch. That was actually a good thing; normally the skin around his eyes was pretty immobile. Because it had been melted. By this asshole. Who they’d gone and made Captain America.

There were professional ways to do interrogations. Building a rapport was important.

Brock didn’t feel like being professional. He stumped into the room, strode over to Wilson, and broke his thumb.

“Fuck, man,” the bound man shouted, and flinched forward to try to cover his hands with his shoulders. “Aren’t you supposed to butter me up first? Buy me a drink before we go dancing?”

“Shut the hell up,” Brock sneered.

Wilson, infuriatingly, laughed. “Yeah your q-and-a session is gonna go real well if I shut the hell up, isn’t it champ?” He stretched out his fingers and rolled his shoulders. “Fuck, that hurts. Congrats, I’m aware that you’re an asshole. I already knew that.”

“Jesus Christ, Brock.” The door slammed open and Jack stormed in. “Get your shit together.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “You know if you’re supposed to be the good cop I don’t think the technique is really suited to this style.”

Jack huffed and pulled something out of his pocket that he set on the table in front of the captive. It was a stapler - one of the good, heavy, industrial gray ones from the sixties. Jack must have raided it from the vault. He’d taken a liking to the office supplies there when he was repurposing them for asset maintenance.

Wilson frowned at the stapler, then at Jack. “Okay, I’ll admit it, you lost me.”

Jack grinned and leaned over. “He’s the good cop, dipshit.”

* * *

Sometimes it sucks to be Captain America. 

Sure, most people love you, but sometimes there are wannabe fascists driving a line of staples into your ear while their shithead buddies ask stupid questions.

“Where is Steve Rogers?”

“I don’t know.” Sam had generally found it was best to stick with the truth in this sort of situation so you couldn’t trip yourself up. He also didn’t actually know. 

That didn’t keep him from getting another staple.

“Is Steve Rogers in New York?”

“I don’t know.” Sam had to hand it to them; the greasy ker-chunk of the stapler was frightening enough to amplify the pain of the crushing and puncturing to a queasy throb.

“When is Steve Rogers going to be in New York?”

“I don’t know, you assholes. Didn’t your spook instructors teach you that advanced interrogation doesn’t work? You want me to start feeding you a line of bullshit?”

The big dude with the stapler wrapped his hand around the instrument and swung at Sam’s cheekbone. Everything briefly exploded into a million pinpoints of blue light. Sam let his head relax on his neck and stared at the ceiling while the room stopped spinning.

“Y’all can keep going but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know.”

The big dude set his stapler down and lounged in the chair across the table from Sam. He put his foot up and smiled. He’d smeared blood across his chin after one of the horrible things he’d done to Sam’s face.

“What do you think, Brock? I think he’s telling the truth, I think he doesn’t know anything useful.”

Rumlow leaned on the table, his movements stiff, and cocked his head. “I don’t know, Jacky. What do we do with him if we don’t ask him questions? If he doesn’t know anything useful what good is he?”

Sam sat up and gave them his very best unimpressed glare. It was a pretty good glare. He’d practiced with both Steve and Bucky and learned to blend their approaches.

“Did you two meet at theater sleepaway camp? You learn your lines from the Sopranos? What’s the punchline of this setup?”

The big guy, Jacky, shrugged. “The punchline is that if you don’t have answers you’re just bait. Live bait works best, of course. And I’ve found that if you give the spandex crew incentives to work faster they get sloppy.”

* * *

Brock called in Vasquez and Murphy while Jack set out to cut the fake captain out of his tac suit.

It had more kevlar reinforcement than Rogers’ suit had needed, but for an unenhanced human Wilson was still pretty ripped; not much of that shape was padding.

He’d gone stony and silent when Jack had picked him up and slammed his chest onto the table, and the sneaky motherfucker tried to get his hands on a boot knife. He didn’t have enough hair to grab so Jack had just palmed his skull and slammed his head hard against the table, leaving him dazed enough to get the knife out of his grip and start pulling his boots off.

By the end of stripping Wilson, Jack was reluctantly impressed. He’d managed to hide weapons just about as effectively as Romanova did and he was lean but well muscled, especially in his strong arms. 

And his thick ass.

Brock was setting out lube and condoms like a mom at a PTA meeting would set out cookies. Dave was lashing Wilson’s ankles to the legs of the table and looping a noose around his neck that tightened if he struggled too much. In the end Wilson’s legs were spread and his hips were at the edge of the table while his hands were in the center with his chest over them and the heavily knotted rope around his throat kept his head down.

A lot of men in this situation struggled. Some pissed themselves. Wilson had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply and evenly. 

He’d been trained to resist interrogations. He’d been trained to deal with torture.

Jack had been trained to do that too, and the funny thing was that trainers all taught the same thing. 

Step outside yourself.

Breathe through the pain.

Remind yourself that it will end.

Dissociate to get through it if you have to.

So Jack had figured out a workaround.

* * *

Nat had trained him on dealing with getting tortured. He hadn’t practiced as much as he should have and now he was deeply regretting that, as one of these Nazi assholes put a fucking  _ noose  _ around his neck and Rumlow started arranging rubbers like a cheese platter.

Sam started to count his breaths.

Jacky was running his hands over Sam’s body, poking at shoulder blades and pinching at hips. He slapped Sam’s ass and it was loud in the little concrete interrogation room. The slap didn’t hurt but it almost hid the quick jab he felt through the skin. Being drugged never boded well in these situations.

Things got a little wobbly and distant after a few minutes. Sam started to feel a tiny bit warmer, which was nice. He’d been really cold.

A hand was sliding under his chin and lifting his face, and when Sam blinked a couple times he realized he was looking at a camera, which gave him a very bad feeling.

His head was set down gently, and a few seconds later a hand was sliding down his back. It reached his hips and slid lower, then pulled his ass cheek to the side and he felt cold, wet fingers touch him.

Nat had taught him. Nat had taught him. He could do this, he could distance himself - 

Those fingers were very very definitely inside of him and Sam clenched his teeth together and did not whine about it.

He was in his happy place, that’s one of those things they told you to do to meditate, right? Build a forest, fill it with penguins or some shit that was - 

Okay, two hands pulling him apart and something else nudging between his legs was much more important to pay attention to than some fucking stupid birds that couldn’t even fly.

He tried to force his mind to refocus, he tried to start saying the alphabet backwards, and all of that went right out the window as the big guy’s big cock started pushing into Sam and became the entire center of his universe.

He had forgotten his deep, smooth breaths and was panting shallowly because this  _ hurt _ , having this thing put inside of him,  _ forced  _ inside of him, hurt and he wasn’t ready for it, didn’t want it and it was happening anyway and who could be expected to take smooth deep breaths when you  _ hurt like this _ -

Sam bit his lip and paid attention to that and did not cry and did not sob and most certainly did not pay any attention to the color commentary coming from the sidelines. His lip hurt, he was making that happen, that’s what he was paying attention to.

A hand touched his cock and Sam’s fragile focus broke apart and scattered like startled pigeons. 

* * *

Brock had to hand it to him, Wilson was tougher than he looked.

He’d never seen one of Jack’s special interrogations get this far without the centerpiece breaking down at least a little bit, but Wilson was doing a good job of shutting himself down like all the FBI pencil-necks droned on about. 

And, for what he was, he was awful pretty. His dark skin showed off the underlying musculature in a way that was foreign to Brock’s experience and a little fascinating. It was hard to tell if Wilson was flushed the way a white guy would be under Jack’s special supplement, but he was sweating a little bit, in a way that made him almost glow under the room’s bright LED ceiling panels.

He’d been reasonably silent and stoic as Jack slicked him up and made him open. He’d breathed hard and closed his eyes when that big prick moved into him. Then Jack touched his dick and he  _ whimpered _ .

“There you go,” Jack said, his voice cruel and full of praise, “you’re getting warmed up to it, aren’t you sugar? Just need a little heat to make the chocolate melt?”

Wilson made a strangled noise that translated itself into choked laughter.

“You gotta explain something, man,” Wilson slurred, “wha’s with the racists an chocolate? I call you a marshmallow and I’m uppity; some white boy calls me Hershey’s an i’ssuposted to be cute?”

Jack rocked his hips forward gently and moved his hand back and forth and the sarcasm faded out of Wilson’s voice. He moaned into the friction then caught himself enjoying it and froze for a second.

“It’s okay, sugar. We all know it feels good. We know you want it. We’ll show you how much you like it,” Jack let go of Wilson’s ass and slid that hand up to his waist so he could brace against the bound man and fuck into him harder while keeping a smooth glide over hs cock. “Just enjoy the ride, baby. We’re gonna treat you real nice just as long as you need.”

* * *

The giant rapist wasn’t kidding about Sam needing him. It was humiliating and disorienting - Sam was overwhelmed with his need to get fucked. 

Sam was a fun, exploratory kind of guy. Sam had had some fumbling encounters with nice young men in college. Sam had had a girlfriend in SigInt who had the cutest little strapon and liked to take him for a ride. Sam wasn’t judging anal play; butts were delightful.

It’s just that, while he’d had fun getting pounded with four inches of sparkly silicone, he’d never felt hungry for it, and he’d certainly never felt his body sag open and melt into a receptive ache for a  _ large  _ insertion.

And he’d never been in the position to feel the particular kind of shame that was filling him - it wasn’t the size that was so jarring, it was that he Did Not Want to get fucked by this Nazi asshole and in spite of that he was having trouble keeping needy whines out of his mouth. 

Sam closed his eyes, put his forehead down on the table, and started listing nineties cartoons in his head. The thrusting felt good, it felt horrible that it felt good, but that didn’t matter, what mattered was whether Wacko’s Modern Life aired before or after Ren and Stimpy.

Sam worked through cartoons, the state capitals, and the Nationals’ last fifteen pitchers. The rough thrusting got faster. Sam came hard and breathed through it without opening his mouth. The giant rapist finished and pulled out.

Sam started to let himself feel relief just before he felt another set of hands on his hips.

* * *

Wilson may have started the party pretty, but by the last dance he was a fucking wreck. Brock smoothed a hand over his spine and enjoyed the contrast of the jizz running out of him with the warm canvas of his skin. 

It was harder for Brock, since the helicarrier. He took longer to get his dick up and it didn’t want to pull away from his body very far, the skin taut and inflexible with scar tissue.

It was nice of the boys to ream Wilson wide open so that he could make an easy ride of it. 

“Hey, hey buddy, it’s okay,” Brock whispered as he fucked into the sloppy mess that had been a tight hole just an hour ago. “Shh, I know it hurts. Don’t worry. We’re gonna give you a nice little break - and it’s not like I’m packing a jackhammer here neither - then we’re gonna get you filled back up again, just like you need.” 

Wilson let out a noise that was the bastard of a laugh and a sob, but didn’t say anything further. 

That wasn’t a problem at all in Brock’s book. This jumped-up flyboy was too full of himself by far; it was nice to give him a chance to be full of someone else for a change.

* * *

Sam groaned when they threw him onto the cold concrete floor of a dark room and dumped a bucket of icy water over him. It felt like shit but it still felt better than them touching him.

“We’ll be back later, sweetheart. Maybe you’ll be nicer if you spend some time without anything helping you out.” The big motherfucker was smiling a twisted smile. “Absence makes the hole grow fonder, right?”

“That was fucking terrible, Jacky,” Brock said. 

Sam had to agree with him, even if he was just another shithead on shithead mountain. They walked out of the basement they’d thrown him into and the door slammed shut behind them. Sam laid on the floor and savored the self pity. He could give himself a minute. He was having a bad day.

Then something moved in the shadows and Sam was in motion too, shoving his legs under him and coming up in a defensive stance.

There was a skinny little woman cringing against the darkest corner of the room. She was probably pretty under all the dirt, probably cute when her eyes weren’t wide with panic and her cheek wasn’t showcasing an enormous bruise below a burst blood vessel in her eye.

“Jesus,” Sam said. “I thought it was empty in here. You scared me.”

The woman crouched down further in her corner and covered her face with her arms.

Yeah. Sam knew that feeling. He picked himself up and took in the room at a glance - there was a grimy sink behind the door, a reasonable amount of light from the hallway, and not much else. He put himself in a crouch in the corner furthest from her. 

“I don’t have my kit on me,” Sam said, “but I can take a look at that shiner, if you want. I’m a field medic.”

The woman shook her head. “It’s fine.”

Sam shrugged, and closed his eyes. He wanted to sit down to make himself look even more harmless, but he desperately didn’t want to put any weight on his ass. “Looks pretty bad. Could be fractured, you could have a concussion.”

“It’s not fractured.”

“How do you know?”

She rolled her eyes. “Lieutenant Cynthia Mercer. Lead ship’s nurse on the USS Blue Ridge for two years. I don’t need a field medic fretting because he can’t find anything to slap full of QuikClot.”

Sam surprised himself by laughing.“Alright, Lieutenant Mercer. Good to meet you. Technical Sergeant Samuel Wilson, Captain America when I’m out of uniform. You can call me Sam.”

The little nurse smiled, and uncurled a bit. She looked incredibly young. “How about I call you Sir, then? Captain outranks everyone else onship,” she said. 

It hurt Sam’s heart, and his head, that little reach for normalcy. He thought about what he’d been through in the last few hours. Wondered how long these assholes had had this frightened woman wearing stained clothes locked in a basement. He could give her a little of what she was looking for.

“Don’t call me Sir, I work for a living.”

* * *

Cynthia was surprisingly funny, for someone who had been through a tire fire of a week and didn’t know if rescue was coming. Sam decided he liked her deadpan snark and fuck-you smile, even if she looked like she’d shatter all the long bones in his body if he moved an inch closer to her. Maybe because of that. Sam didn’t want anyone coming near him either.

They’d chatted for a while, circling around safe topics like where they’d been stationed and which of the bases they’d both seen had the worst food. Sam hurt, inside and out. More than anything he wanted to curl into a miserable little ball and go to sleep. Then Cynthia’s voice got tiny and quiet.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

She sniffled, and took a hitching breath. “They’re gonna come for you, right?”

Sam tried to paste on a smile. “Yeah. Guaranteed. Might take a little while, but if they don’t get me back they don’t have anyone to look pretty in the uniform.”

She laughed. It was watery and horrible and tears broke down her face. “Just. When they come get you - you - you’ll take me out with you, right?”

The stricken, frightened expression on her face tore at him.

“Hey, hey,” Sam said, trying hard for soothing, comforting confidence, “leave no man behind. You know that.”

Cynthia bit down on her lip and took big, uneven breaths. Her eyes were squinted shut and her head was shaking. “My crew,” she sobbed, “they left me here a-all al-lone and you c-can’t l-l-l-” and she couldn’t finish and Sam couldn’t stay on the other side of the room anymore. 

He approached her carefully and pulled her head against his shoulder very slowly so that he could wrap her up in a hug.

“No one’s leaving you behind this time. We’ll get you out,” he said, and then told his favorite lie.

“It’ll be okay.”

* * *

Cynthia got herself calmed down enough to bully Sam into sitting in front of her and letting her pick the staples out of his skin. She was comfortingly covered in a large tee-shirt, and Sam was both jealous of and relieved by her relative sartorial advantage.

She tore off one of the sleeves and soaked it in cold water from the dirty sink to clean up the cuts as best she could. He was still and quiet and she let him be, for a while. Then he couldn’t hide the shaking in his hands anymore and she spoke up. 

“What are they like?” she said as she carefully wiggled a thin piece of metal in the cartilage of Sam’s left ear. It joined a pile of eight others

Sam knew who she was talking about. Everyone asked the same question of this weird man with the wings who’d fallen in among gods.

“They’re okay. Tony is a million times cooler and a million times more annoying than he is on TV. The Black Widow kicks like a mule and never wakes up before noon if she can help it. Thor is exceptionally polite but it’s very confusing because everything Asgardians consider polite is terrifying here. You wouldn’t believe the dry-cleaning bill.”

Cynthia giggled, and Sam felt like maybe he wasn’t completely useless if he could cheer up a woman who’d been through what she’d been through in a place like this.

“Bruce is really nice. No tact, no fashion sense, but he’s just a nice, kind man. Hawkeye has arrows. I like him best because he’s the only one on the team more out of place than I am.”

She giggled again, and went in for another staple. Sam only winced a little when she pulled the scab open gently.

The basement got quiet again. “Did you know him well? Before he went away?”

Sometimes it was really hard to be Captain America. It was really hard because even if you wore the colors and you carried the shield, you always carried Steve’s shadow with you.

“I did.”

“Do you miss him?”

Sam paused. That’s not what people normally asked. They asked what Steve was like, was he really that tall in person (no; he was a six-foot-tall jerk who everyone thought was eight feet tall, which made them underwhelmed with Sam’s perfectly reasonable five feet and ten inches), could Sam pass on their number (also no; Sam didn’t want Bucky hunting anyone for sport and wouldn’t put it past him). People didn’t ask what Sam thought of Steve.

“I do. I still see him sometimes. We shoot the shit if Tony throws a party, but it’s not the same. Active duty and retirement are in a whole different universe.”

She hummed in agreement. They rested, side by side and silent, taking warmth and comfort from one another. It was nice. As nice as things could be in a situation like this. 

* * *

Sam woke up on fire. 

At least, that’s what it felt like. He rolled onto his front, moaning, and tried to get more of the concrete in contact with his burning skin.

“Sam?”

He had to be exploding, right? You couldn’t burn like this without burning up, it was too much, couldn’t be contained.

“Sam, can you hear me?”

He couldn’t be on fire, Captain America wasn’t Johnny Storm. He had to be not on fire. Flame off. Whatever. He had to figure out how to smother the embers.

“Sam, I need you to look at me, look over my right shoulder then over my left shoulder.”

There was someone touching him and it felt so good he wanted to cry, strong little hands like ice on his eyelids.

“The drugs echo at six hour intervals, doses last about twenty four hours. I know it hurts, I know you’re feeling it, it’ll be okay.”

Sam shivered and sweated and wished very hard to be part of the nice cool concrete floor that didn’t have these problems. Cynthia held his hand and the contact was enough to sharpen Sam’s perception into something that recognized that he was a person being spoken to by a person, and was not the physical embodiment of a knee to the balls.

“How do you know what they gave me?”

Cynthia laughed real ugly. Yeah. That answered that question.

“Am I going to throw up or die? Because if I get a choice I think I want ‘die.’”

Cynthia’s cold, strong little hand gripped the back of Sam’s neck and he nearly purred into the touch.

“You’re not going to die. It’ll fade on its own in about an hour.”

“I’m sorry. Jesus. I’m so fucking sorry,” Sam said, and tried not to think about the stony look on her face or her thousand-yard stare. Sam rolled on his side and looked at the wall and decided he was going to try to hold his breath for the next hour so that his skin would stop screaming at him. He got through about three minutes of holding his breath for thirty second intervals before Cynthia spoke again.

“I - I can -” she laughed a little wildly.

Sam grunted something that he hoped translated as “please continue, or bury me in thirty tons of broken glass because that would feel better than this.”

“It stops hurting if you fuck,” Cynthia said in a rush that Sam took a second to piece apart. “If you fuck me it won’t hurt.” She was looking straight ahead, her shoulders stiff and her jaw tight.

Sam snorted. “That’s extremely romantic of you, Lieutenant, but I can barely blink my eyes at the same time right now. Chances that I can get enough body parts to cooperate enough to put my dick in something are about as good as my chances of spontaneously phasing through solid matter.” Sam felt like a buzzard had shit in his mouth. The last thing in the universe he wanted to do was further traumatize Cynthia while also liquefying his insides. 

The cold, soothing hands pressed into Sam’s chest and he mewled embarrassingly while arching his body up into that touch as much as possible.

“Sam,” Cynthia said softly, “it’s okay. It’s okay. You’ll feel better, just hold still.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath and shook his head but cool, strong thighs were spreading over his waist while the hands pressed down harder. “It’s okay, I know you’re hurting. Let me help you.” It was harder to say no, with more of her skin touching him Sam felt halfway back to human but also like he was flying over a sheet of dark glass that kept him away from the world.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay, tell me you want it.”

He did, he did want it. The longer she touched him the further the pain faded, and the stronger he felt. He nodded slowly, trying to keep his eyes open.

“I’ve got you,” Cynthia whispered, and blissful, wet coolness sank over him and spread through him. She rode him hard and fast, grinding her hips in clever little circles and economizing her movements to do things that drove Sam out of his mind.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” she said again and again while she worked herself over him and Sam felt buffeted by waves of hot and cold and delight and revulsion. The sensations and the horror and the sweetness swirled together and crashed and coalesced into a blinding brightness that faded to nothing in the space between two breaths.

* * *

He tried to fight when they came for Cynthia. She was keening and scrambling back to hide in the corner; the big asshole steamrolled right through Sam's weak attempt to stand up in front of her. He knocked Sam to the side, and then Jacky was dragging Cynthia out of the cell by her elbow as her bare feet scrabbled for purchase on the floor. 

Then they were out the door and Cynthia’s shouts and cries faded as she was pulled away from the basement. All told it had been five seconds, maybe, between the peace of a cell with a closed door and the uncertainty of an emptier space. 

Sam allowed himself two minutes of wallowing in self pity before he stood up and tried to put himself together a little more. He couldn’t get out of the cell, he couldn’t help her. He could do this. He washed his face and hands at the stained sink, then gathered his courage and cleaned between his cheeks. 

A little super healing would have been nice sometimes. 

As he washed his dick off he tried to figure out how he felt about fucking Cynthia. She was cute. Really cute. And funny. And the kind of tough little scrapper that always managed to make Sam see floaty hearts and hear cartoon birds. If they’d met at a bar, maybe after some kind of Service function, Sam would have tried to get a number. He would have hoped to get lucky with her.

He didn’t feel particularly lucky now.

But he couldn’t deny that he was grateful that she’d been willing to help, and couldn’t help but wish he’d had a chance to share a drink and lose a round of pool with her before he’d been inside of her. It was easier, at least a little, to think about that than to think about where they’d taken her and what they were doing to her. 

* * *

When they dumped Cynthia back into the basement she was crying too hard to talk, or stand, or care about anything. Sam carefully sat her up and leaned her against him, being exceptionally cautious about how he moved her. He rocked her gently and patted her back in slow, soothing circles while her sobs tapered off. 

She reached for his free hand and Sam saw the glint of a staple in the web between her thumb and forefinger. She squeezed his hand, even though it must have hurt, and curled her head against his chest.

“Do you want me to get that?” he asked, and lifted her hand a little.

She shook her head.

“What are they asking you about?”

Cynthia sighed. “They want to know if the Blue Ridge was patrolling an island in Washington in order to rendezvous with the Winter Soldier. Everything is about supersoldiers with these assholes.”

Sam hugged her gently, just a tiny tightening of his arms. “You got that right. Why would they even ask you? You’re a nurse, not a navigator.”

“That’s what I said!” She started picking at the staple in her own skin and worrying it loose. The area around the puncture was worse than the actual staple, bruised and mottled already. “They said because I’m a nurse I’d know about the Soldier’s maintenance schedule. They thought we were fixing the arm.”

Sam snorted. “That arm is Wakandan tech and, Semper Fortis and all, the Navy doesn’t have the know-how.”

She was chipping away the dried blood on her palm with a dirty fingernail. “How does he get it worked on? Stark doesn’t have the know-how either.”

Sam moved her hands apart and checked the bruises on her stapled digits. “Princess Shuri flies in a couple times a year for a check-in and Steve and Bucky come by to let Bucky get poked at while Steve goes to heckle the Yankees for a few games. The man becomes absolutely insufferable if he can’t go pray at the Cathedral of Baseball and bitch about buying a lineup at least twice a season.”

Cynthia winced as she took her hand back, flexing her thumb. “He should get into football, it’s probably better for his blood pressure.”

Sam cackled. “You only say that because you’ve never seen him interact with Patriots fans.”

“So do you go with him, or do you watch the Soldier get poked?”

Sam grinned. “Fifty-fifty. Bucky with a probe and a screwdriver in his arm is better company than Steve watching Voit bat two runs in.”

* * *

Two hours later Sam wanted to punch himself in the face. He was cuffed to the interrogation table again and his eyes jittered around the room looking for nooses and office supplies. 

Of  _ course  _ the cell had cameras in it. 

Sam was an idiot. 

“When was the last time you went to Yankee Stadium with Steve Rogers?”

Sam was the king of idiots.

“It made the news, look it up, I don’t memorize every time I see him like a twelve-year-old with a crush.”

“When is the Wakandan princess going to service the Soldier’s arm next?”

They were going to have to create a higher office. Emperor of idiots.

“If you think I’m looped in on what Wakandan royalty and Bucky Barnes get up to you have a distorted view of my impact on these peoples’ lives.”

“Does Rogers use Stark’s box at Gillette Stadium?”

“Do you have nothing better to do than this? Aren’t there babies you could be stealing candy from? Puppies in need of kicking? This is minutiae. This is trivia. This is a fluff filler piece on the morning news.”

Jacky put down his stapler and Rumlow spoke up. “Do you really want us to stop questioning you and switch to entertainment?”

Sam groaned and put his head down. “I want you to stop being awful Nazi fucks, let me go, and then die. Fast or slow. Doesn’t matter to me.”

* * *

It didn’t take Wilson long to change his tune, but that didn’t make a difference. Brock tapped out a text to Mercer while Westphal and Higgins tried to squeeze in side by side. He’d have liked another go at Wilson, the airman was more fun than Brock had expected, but Brock had to recognize reality. He was getting to be an old man, and he was easily tired since having a fucking building dropped on him.

Brock was going to need to conserve his strength if he wanted to have a go at Rogers once he woke up.

* * *

When they dumped him in the basement and he looked over to find Cynthia convulsing Sam wondered how many times this day could go from “bad” to “worse.” He crawled to her. He hurt too much to stand and definitely did not want to think about why.

“Cynthia, hey, hey, can you hear me?”

She cycled through a series of hard twitches before settling in to increased respiration and rolling eyes.

“Hey, Cynthia, I’m back, you’re not alone in here,” Sam put his hand on her wrist and she whimpered and rolled toward the contact. “It’s okay, girl, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” he wanted to cry. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to never touch anyone again. He petted her hair softly and kept saying soothing nonsense while she came back to herself a little.

“Sam,” she gasped, “Sam it  _ hurts _ .”

“I know, sweetheart, I know. It’ll be over soon enough. You’re gonna be okay.” Sam squeezed her hand and she moaned.

“Please,” she sobbed, “Sam I’m so sorry,  _ please _ , please it  _ hurts _ .”

Sam nodded, and felt the tears break from his eyes. “Okay, yeah,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “Okay, sweetheart, we’ll get you taken care of.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him over her, shuddering with relief and breathing fast. Sam knelt between her legs and tried to keep a hand on her to keep the pain from cresting. He remembered the horrible heat of it and forced himself to concentrate.

The truth was, Sam didn’t want to help Cynthia with this. Sam didn’t know if he could get hard, Sam was pretty sure he was bleeding down his thighs, and Sam was very sure he didn’t want to know what was running down his legs if it wasn’t blood. Sam wanted a shower and an eight-foot-thick lead wall in between him and all other humans for at least a week. But she had helped him, and now she was hurting. So he forced all of those thoughts out of his head and looked at her.

Cynthia, was beautiful, really. She had a delicate, doll-like face and thick blonde hair. She had a strong, toned body and it was writhing against him. Sam put a hand on himself and thought about her husky, sarcastic voice and her strong hands. He imagined what it would be like, standing in a busy bar and listening to her talk about life on ship, thinking about how she might cock her head and smirk at him, thinking about how he might smile and reach out for her.

Whether it was the mental images or the drugs they’d shot him up with, it was working. Sam took a minute, but he got hard and he kept grabbing Cynthia’s hip and stroking her leg and gently kissing her lips while she waited for him.

“Sam, I need it,” she whispered in his ear, and that got him the rest of the way there. She was beautiful, and she wanted him, and he could do this and forget about the last day of absolute hell for twenty minutes.

He shifted his grip on his cock and held himself against her, looking down at her for the first time to see the soft pink space between her legs as he shifted to find the way inside of her. He dragged the head of his cock up and down the line of her lips and she tilted her hips up, lifting her legs to guide him. She was wet and sweet and open to him, and Sam concentrated on that instead of the pain he felt as he pushed inside, or the buzz of anxiety he felt being this close to another person right now. 

Cynthia sobbed, sighed, and went soft around him as relief moved through her body. 

It was okay, it would be okay, he was helping her and he could freak out about everything else that happened today later, right now he was treating someone’s drug overdose in the only way he could. This wasn’t taking advantage of her, this wasn’t using her, his was putting pressure on a wound and Sam was a medic he knew how to do that.

Sam moved carefully, measured and cautious, and Cynthia’s hard-won ease drifted away and she left behind the relaxed, quiet euphoria of relief in favor of a fiery surge of need. She shoved at Sam’s shoulder and he sat back, then winced as she pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him.

He breathed through it. He could hold it together. Her focused grinding, the taut weight of her on top of him - it hurt. Somewhere deep inside of him that pressure hurt where he’d been split open on two bodies and he wasn’t thinking about it, he was holding it together, he could get her through this, she had done it for him, even if her eyes hadn’t been clenched shut, even if she hadn’t been crying her way through helping him. 

Cynthia’s movements sped up and she started making soft sounds as she rode him. He opened his eyes and saw that she was staring glassily down at him, her hand was between her legs and her knuckles were bumping his abs as she fingered herself while fucking herself roughly on his body. She was right  _ there _ , close and wet and tight, and all she needed was for Sam to stay hard for her, so he shoved the sob that wanted to crawl out of his mouth into a quiet whine and she erupted around him. Her body clenched hard, then softened into a slick, wet grip that tensed rhythmically on his cock as she rode out the aftershocks of her orgasm. Sam let his hands rest on her hips and breathed hard through his nose while she panted on top of him.

“Wait, stop!” She said, and Sam froze, his eyes popping open to see how he’d hurt her.

She smiled down at him then gracefully pushed herself up from her toes and rose with a surprising burst of agility. She tugged the hem of the shirt down over her hips then walked to the door and knocked four times. 

“What -” Sam said, his heart racing as he tried to think when he’d kept going past what she needed, how he’d held her that had made it worse.

She winked at him, then leaned against the doorframe smirking. Everything suddenly felt curdled and awful; her posture was wrong, her smile was wrong.

“They figured you’d open up more to a little broken bird than to the guys upstairs,” she said cheerfully, “but I knew you just really don’t have any clue where Steve is.”

“What -” Sam said again, moving his hands and starting to sit up while he stared at her.

“Me, I just figured if the boys had a turn at you I wanted one too.”

He made himself move smoothly, crossing his legs and resting on his hands while he leaned back. He looked around the basement, then back to her, and raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t even ask me any questions this time.”

She laughed. It was pretty. Cute. Light. Terrifying. “Oh, this was never an interrogation, I just wanted one last taste before I get too busy for Rumlow’s little frivolities. We caught Rogers an hour ago.”

Sam was pretty sure his face did a poor job of feigning nonchalance because she laughed again.

“I’ll tell him you miss him, when he catches on. I bet I can string him along even longer than you.”

And with that the door was opening and Cynthia was closing herself on the other side of it, exchanging jocular greetings with the HYDRA goon guarding the stairs.

Sam laid back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. He was going to give himself fifteen minutes to stop hurting quite so much, and then he was going to rescue Steve’s dumb ass.

* * *

It’s  _ great  _ to be Captain America.

Nazis try to capture you all the time. Nazis sometimes  _ do _ capture and torture your friends and maybe your lover for seventy years or so, but who’s counting? 

But one of the genuinely nice things about dealing with HYDRA and their plots is that they’re totally blinded by the stars and stripes, and are completely convinced that you’re a patriotic airhead who’s managed to evade their clutches for decades through a combination of luck and cartoon physics. 

Steve was breathing through the air filter hidden behind his teeth and pretending to be unconscious. These idiots had set gas-trap rooms for him and Bucky three out of the last five times they’d taken a hostage, so Steve and Bucky had started planning for these sorts of contingencies. Hence: the filtration unit disguised as a mouthguard, the adrenaline in the suit that would jab him if there was a needlestick through the fabric, and (of course) the four separate transceivers Bucky had insisted needed to be injected into Steve’s body before he left the house for anything from a grocery run to an alien invasion. 

And, given that Steve had been lost in an ocean for more than half a century, that was probably fair.

People - STRIKE team members - were wandering into the room in ones and twos. Jack and Brock started the party, but before long Steve heard Higgins and Vasquez. Nobody was trying anything - nobody had even bothered trying to tie Steve down - he could wait for the right moment.

The right moment came along five minutes later to a chorus of hoots and catcalls from the men in the room.    
“Alright, alright, don’t be assholes. Let’s see what we’re dealing with today,” Mercer said as she elbowed her way to the tile where Steve was sprawled out. 

Steve didn’t even have to pretend to wake up. As soon as Cynthia - who Steve had long ago recognized made up about half of the combined mental power of all of STRIKE Alpha - was close enough to be neutralized Steve depressed the trigger in the palm of his glove and breathed through his mouth as bodies hit the floor one by one. 

It took less than a minute and everybody in the room who wasn’t Steve was on the floor. It was like Bucky always said: never bring knockout gas to a poison gas fight. Steve cheerfully hopped up and walked out, closing the door behind him and holding his breath another minute for good measure. He was going to find Sam and then he was going to kill everyone on this base and then he was going to tear the whole miserable affair down to studs with his bare fucking hands.

* * *

Sam as long as he could stand it before he knocked on the door four times. 

There was about thirty seconds of silence before a young-sounding voice answered. “Yeah?”

“Please, I’m still bleeding,” Sam tried to make himself sound shaky and frightened. Mostly he felt numb. “Please, can I have some bandages, or at least some paper towels or something?”

There was no answer for a moment, then Sam heard a quiet “fuck” before keys clattered in the door.

The struggle was brief and furious. The young guard was skilled in hand-to-hand combat but wasn’t “I’m Literally Captain America” skilled and Sam had smashed his head into the wall of the stairwell, knocking him possibly unconscious (and possibly dead) after only moments of grappling.

Sam looked up the stairs. It was like looking through cotton. He shook his head and started stripping the pants off the maybe-dying kid who’d opened the door for him. The kid’s shoes wouldn’t fit Sam, but his pants, shirt, and holsters fit just fine. Sam disengaged the safeties on two Reugers then made his way up the stairs.

The base was water-stained and quiet. It looked like it had largely been abandoned before its recent foray into evil lair-dom and it looked like it was trying feverishly to revert to its previous squalid state. Sam crunched over dirt and dried leaves and spiderwebs with his bare feet as he turned corners and tried to guess where HYDRA would store a supersoldier. He’d cleared one floor (mostly dirt, two dead rats, a roomful of waterlogged boxes that were swollen and mildewed and stinking) and had made it up the stairs to a second floor before he heard footsteps. He had a gun in his hand and was turning to aim as the words “on your left” percolated through his brain. 

Steve. 

Sam took his finger off the trigger and lowered his hand, but kept his grip firm and his stance strong. Steve was standing in the hallway in one of the more sedate versions of his supersuit. He had the particular feral glint in his eye that said he’d done something stupid but fun in the last twenty minutes. 

“Did you actually get captured or did you let yourself get captured so that you could break in to get me out,” Sam asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

Steve grinned. “Bucky hated the plan too.”

“When I met your cyborg life partner I never expected to have so many things in common with him,” Sam’s eyes were scanning behind Steve, looking for threats.

Steve’s smile got wider. “Unless you left anyone downstairs for me we can take our time getting out,” he said as he dug a small bottle of water out of the bag slung over his shoulder and passed it to Sam.

“Oh yeah? You lock them all up tight?” Sam looked Steve up and down. He’d had a bad day around a lot of bad people but for all the nasty energy Steve was throwing off Sam couldn’t help but feel safe.

“Nope,” Steve said, and ducked low next to Sam, offering his shoulder as a crutch.

Sam didn’t give a tinker’s damn about dignity. He let his friend lift him and drank his water. “Bucky’s been good for you.”

“Yep,” Steve said, and started moving them toward the exit.

* * *

It turned out the rest of Steve’s bag was full of explosives that he arranged neatly and quickly around crucial support structures of the middle floor of the underground bunker. Bucky really had been good for him. Steve had deposited Sam in a quinjet that was in the base’s first story hangar, then rabbited off to wire up his tidy little bombs. 

Sam noted that there was a full and comprehensive first aid kit set out next to the bathroom, alongside a soft pair of joggers, a thermal, and an oversized cardigan. He smiled to himself. It was like Steve had packed for every facet of his own personality. 

Sam took himself to the bathroom with the kit and made use of the jet’s powerful capabilities to take a two-minute hot shower. He counted the seconds himself so they wouldn’t get away from him. 

When he felt marginally more human Sam checked himself over for any injuries that might require stitches or would cause significant blood loss on the flight back from wherever this was. Nothing was pressing so Sam dropped it. He didn’t want to look at what they’d done to him unless he absolutely had to. He found a fresh package of boxer briefs under the little stack of clothes and dressed himself. 

They were good clothes. Warm. Homey. He held onto the holster and the Rugers anyway.

Steve was back in the cockpit by the time Sam shuffled out of the bathroom and made his way to the copilot’s chair. 

“Thanks, man,” Sam said. “For coming to get me. For making it fast.” 

Steve nodded, pushing buttons that opened up the overhead hangar door and brought the jets online. Steve pushed one more button and the raspy hiss of cymbals and a throaty, echoing drum brought tears to Sam’s eyes as the speakers started to play. 

“I, I, I, I come up hard, baby,” the stereo crooned.

Sam let himself sit down heavily, and let the jet, the music, and his friend carry him away from this terrible day. 

“Trouble, man,” he said, and didn’t say anything else for a long time.

It would be okay. It would be okay. That was Sam’s favorite lie, because sometimes, if you got really lucky, it was the truth. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sam is kidnapped by HYDRA, told that he will be bait to try to catch Steve Rogers, given an aphrodisiac with periodic spikes in arousal, raped, put in a cell with Cynthia Mercer "a nurse", who has been given a similar aphrodisiac. Sam has an arousal spike from the drug and Cynthia has sex with him, Cynthia is taken away from the cell and Sam comforts her when she gets back, Sam is taken away from the cell to be interrogated and abused again, when he returns to the cell Cynthia is having an arousal spike. Sam ignores his own pain to help Cynthia through the drug; after she orgasms she drops the act, reveals that she isn't drugged, that she's HYDRA, and that Steve was captured before Sam even got brought back to the cell. Steve defeats the HYDRA agents holding him, Sam breaks out of his cell, and Steve and Sam meet up - Steve takes Sam to a quinjet, wires the base to explode, and they fly away.


End file.
